Art Appreciation
by Sendai
Summary: John accidentally reveals his inner longings as he appreciates art. Sherlock uses this to his advantage. Established relationship. Probably just a three chapter ficlet. Just an excuse for fluff and stuff. Rated M for adult situations and language and mild Dom/Sub. Now posting act 3.
1. Chapter 1

Rated M for adult situations and language. And because later Acts get a bit smutty.

Act 1

John arrived at the crime scene only a few minutes after the consulting detective. Sherlock was already studying the bare spot on the wall, where an extremely valuable Turner should have been hanging. He completely ignored John's arrival, as did the Yarders who were milling about, ostensibly looking for clues, no doubt.

Feeling quite superfluous, John stood to the side and admired the works of art on display, at this very rich person's home. He tried not to gawk like a tourist.

He admired a couple of sketches of ballerinas. Degas, he wondered? He was pleased that he could dredge up any artist's name, so many years after his Survey of Art class.

He looked at a couple of odd canvases which were an unpleasant shade of ocher blended with a desert sunset orange and then streaked with black and purple squiggles. Since there were no plaques on any of the art, he decided to call them The Dire Diptych. He shrugged. He liked the ballerinas better.

Sherlock was orbiting a cleaning bucket and harassing a junior detective, while Sally Donovan spat out some perfunctory insults. Doctor Watson should not even have bothered coming really. He served no purpose here. Sherlock probably didn't even know John was here. The doctor enjoyed a large landscape painting that looked vaguely French country-side. Ha, it was probably something out of the U.S. How would John know? He hadn't been in an art gallery for years, unless you counted those ill-fated trips to the National Gallery, which led to the death of poor Soo Lin Yao.

John meandered closer to the knot surrounding Sherlock.

"Of course the bucket is meaningless," announced the consulting detective, his tone scathing. John was just glad that it wasn't directed at him. "By all means, let Anderson dust it for fingerprints or test it for semen or whatever... At least maybe that will keep him out of my way!"

Yeah, maybe it was just as well that Sherlock didn't know that John had arrived.

Sherlock strode over to a glass sculpture standing on a pedestal in the middle of the room. He circled it several times, like an over-sized raptor. Then he stooped to examine it with his pocket magnifier in several different spots, before swooping of in search of better prey.

Feeling very much out-of-place, the former army doctor wandered over to the plinth bearing the twisted glass vase-thingy. It looked like claret, which had been flash-frozen just as it was poured and then morphed into an eggplant. Maybe it should be named Frozen Claret? Cabernet on Ice? Cabernet and the Eggplant?

While the top was a lovely crimson-red, the base was a rich, gorgeous dark plumy-purple. John leaned closer admiring the color, because it was the perfect color. It was his favorite color. It was the purple shirt of sex color.

He hummed, imagining that shirt and the marble-like chest underneath the shirt and…

"Fascinating, isn't it?" said a very pretty, very posh platinum blonde who sashayed over in her shiny, silver stiletto heels which clashed a bit with her fitted bronze suit-dress. However, John noticed that even in her very high heels, she wasn't any taller than him. That was a nice change, thought John with a smile. A very nice change indeed.

"Yes, I like the colors," said John simply. He forgot, for just that critical moment, that posh platinum blonds, who wore silver stilettos, generally didn't respect simple honesty from regular old blokes like John Watson.

The blonde woman's Adler-red mouth turned down in an unattractive sneer. "I suppose you _would_ like the _colors_," she said, managing to sound very Mycrofty-ish to Doctor Watson.

This thoughtless contempt, on top of being ignored by his posh consulting detective for nearly a week, rubbed John Watson the wrong way. He pursed his lips and then flashed her a smile, which did not quite reach his cobalt-blue eyes. John unconsciously shifted into parade rest as he prepared for verbal sparring with Ms. Stiletto of the Upper Crust.

She, unfortunately, did not recognize John's battle stance and she continued instructing, "Still, if one looks beyond the _pretty Crayola colors_, if one tried to use _ones mind_ to appreciate the flowing, amorphous mass…"

"…of crimson which is strong, powerful yet paired with the inherent brittleness and transparency of glass, why then one can sense the metaphor," said John Watson. His soft seductive voice somehow penetrated the crowded room, in spite of the natterings from the forensics team and murmurous detectives.

"I'd say it's a metaphor for the transience of passion, all the usual passions," he said dismissively, as if passions bored him to tears. "You, know," he said confidingly to the platinum blond. "Love, hate, fear, jealousy, longing...ardor...d_esire_." John's voice dropped to a husky level, and the room became a bit quieter.  
He continued in a harsh stage whisper, like one lover to another, "But I think…that it goes beyond feelings… what it truly represents is the transience of _orgasmic ecstasy." _

The Yarders silenced completely to listen to John discuss the metaphor of the glass sculpture of sex.

The blond lady shook back her hair and gazed appraisingly at the unassuming blond-grey man, who, much to her surprise, seemed to be a serious art critic. "The sanguine red is subsumed by the dark, ominous purple," she said somewhat breathlessly, "I feel the artist is reflecting on the way men dominate women…"

"And yet the claret is on top, she is dominant, reflecting the new dynamic in the 21st century when the old traditions fail and women dominate men, when the weak become strong." said John crisply. "You know the static purple with the crimson riding on top, it reminds me...of bondage."

"Ohh," sighed the blonde woman flushing deeply. "Has she conquered him?" she asked with a gasp.

"Maybe," said John rocking on his heels, hands still fisted behind his back. He kept his face firmly fixed on the sculpture of sex. "Maybe. The transparent medium feels open; I think it's consensual. Fully consensual bondage, the dominatrix and her sub…But she is in control. She is on top and _riding _her mate. And the artist has captured the moment of _her _climax. She cries out to the Earth Mother in victory as the orgasm flows through her like the claret flowing into the aubergine below. And he writhes helplessly beneath her, fully at her mercy…begging for release."

"Ohh, ohhh!" murmured the blonde, grabbing a hold of John's arm.

"Shhhite," someone in the room muttered.

A loud snap echoed through the room, as Sherlock with a white face and pinched lips removed his gloves.

"The cleaning agency did it," snapped the consulting detective angrily to Lestrade. "You'll find some of their finger prints on Watson's orgasmic sculpture. At least one of them found the work as compelling as does our doctor." The detective whirled to leave, his gloomy, gunmetal-grey coat swirled in an ominous foreshadowing of John's dark doom.

"No wait," said Lestrade. "I need details…Sherlock!"

"I'll text you later," boomed the voice, which was already halfway down the long hall, connecting the private gallery to the main house.

"Ahhh," said John, as carmine faintly colored his cheeks. "I best be…ah, going?" he pointed towards the now silent hallway. He ignored the Yarder's stares.

"Wait!" called the posh woman. "Wait, I'm Madeline. Here's my card. Call me." She ended with a loud, desperate whisper, which everyone heard.

John shrugged helplessly as he backed away towards the exit. "Can't really. Um…jealous boyfriend and, um, all that." He shrugged again with a disingenuous smile.

Anderson dropped his lab kit with a loud clatter, amid a few gasps of astonishment.

John headed toward the hallway, biting his lip. Sherlock was a possessive lover, a very possessive and very jealous lover. And Sherlock just might have thought that John was flirting, which he wasn't, of course. He was only taking the piss, yeah?

Then too, John had just outted himself and his boyfriend to Scotland Yard. Not that they'd decided to keep their relationship a secret forever, but…it was all a bit not good.

John picked up speed, nearly running down the hall.

"What the hell was that?" demanded Donovan. She and Lestrade were chasing John back towards the main house and the exit.

"Yeah. What the HELL _was_ that?" echoed Lestrade, looking confused.

"What? The art thing?" asked John hurrying, even though he knew Sherlock was probably long gone by now. "That's just a little trick I learned at Uni…um, I learned from…from an art major. It works with any piece of work, but it works best for modern art. You just look at the art and then bring it all back to violence or sex," he paused for a second and rubbed his mouth. "…especially violence _and _sex. Those pseudo-Nazi-art-critic types eat it up. Frankly, I just liked the colors; I liked the aubergine at the bottom of the glass-vase-sculpture-thingy. It's a…a nice color. The vase'd be nice for holding tulips I think. Purple tulips."

"Tulips?" asked Donovan, her mouth opened in disbelief.

"No! Not that!" exclaimed Lestrade. "Well, not only that. Christ, John! You said _jealous boyfriend_."

"Yeah!" said Sally Donovan her eyes wide with excitement. "That's what you said."

John kept walking past more Yarders. He pinched his lower lip and sighed. "Yeah. All right. As a matter of fact I should probably go find him now…"

"All right? Find him? You mean you and Sherlock? When were you going to tell me?" demanded Lestrade.

"Ummm, today?" said John.

"I love it!" said Sergeant Donovan gleefully. "Thank you. Thank you very much, Doctor Watson. I think I just won sixty pounds."

John tilted his head and furrowed his brow, trying to figure out what Sally was on about.

"Jesus. You and Sherlock! I knew it," repeated Lestrade. "I knew it!"

John thought that it was good that Sherlock wasn't there, since the consulting detective hated repetition.

Donovan peered out the cut glass window next to the door. "Uh Oh! Looks like your jealous boyfriend is waiting for you," said Sally with an evil grin. "Nice knowing ya, Doctor Watson."

"Yeah, good luck mate," said Lestrade beginning to grin. He patted John on the shoulder as the shorter man hurried through the double doors.

The detective inspector's smile faded, when Sherlock viciously dragged John down the steps and all but manhandled the blond into a taxi.

* * *

**A/N** Thank you for reading this ficlet. Review's, con-crit and comments welcomed.

Oh, who am I kidding? I _love_ reviews and honestly appreciate con-crit and suggestions. I live for pithy comments and silly jokes and you know...reviews.

So...join the queue, please review. (I'm sorry, that was a really bad rhyme. I'm so sorry.)

:D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D

Oh right, thanks for the reminder…

**DISCLAIMER **I do not own the rights to anything Sherlocky or John-Watsony. Thank goodness, right? :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning** Rated M for adult situations and language. Mild DOM/SUB heading into smut.

**Act 2**

It was a quiet ride home. John rubbed his sore elbow, sore thanks to Sherlock's manhandling. The doctor glared at his irate yet irritating boyfriend.

Sherlock glared out the window, his lips were still pinched, his nostrils were pinched…hell his whole face was pinched, thought John as he pinched his lower lip. Then John rubbed his aching arm again and seriously considered giving the lanky git a right good pinch as payback.

The blond stuck his hand in his pocket to avoid pinching, punching or kissing his partner; frankly, John thought Sherlock deserved all three. After all, the consulting detective had insisted that John rush to the crime scene and then comprehensively ignored his blogger. Naturally, John got bored. Naturally, he admired the art in the private gallery. Naturally, John would discuss the art with the only person who was willing to talk to him.

It wasn't John's fault that the Stiletto Blonde engaged him over the orgasmic sex sculpture. It was...

Oh bloody hell. Maybe John had flirted. A bit. A tiny bit but mostly out of self-defense when the posh lady was being so Mycrofty-ish. John worried his lip wondering how to fix this. Sherlock never seemed interested in apologies, maybe...

That's when the good doctor felt Madeline's card in his pocket. It would be _very not good_, if Sherlock found that card. John decided to give it over voluntarily. Yeah, that's the ticket, thought John. I'll come clean and then we can discuss all this like adults.

"She gave me her card," said John, trying to look as innocent as possible. He handed the card to the consulting detective before it could become an issue. "You know, I was telling Donovan and Lestrade about that artsy trick I learned at Uni. See the trick is to act pretentious and then say that the piece of art represents violence or sex, …or, um both…"

Sherlock glared out the window.

John had a one-way conversation. Intermittently filling the silence with further explanations, which Sherlock seemingly ignored. Although, the cabbie seemed quite keen, nodding at John via the rearview mirror. John gave up and glared at the back of the driver's head.

John was angry at himself for showing off for the stupid blond lady. Showing off might work for Sherlock, but it always backfired on John Watson. And this time, John was getting seriously burned in the backlash. He sighed.

When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock flew out of the cab, his coat dark coat ghosting along behind him.

John was left to pay the cabbie. He left a reasonable tip, since the cabbie hadn't laughed at John's obvious predicament.

"It really works, that trick with the _artistes_?" asked the taxi driver, still impressed.

"Um, yeah," muttered the doctor. "Just limit it to one or two works at a time. You know, don't show your hand, yeah?" said John with a nervous little grin. He was anxious to straighten out this SNAFU between him and Sherlock.

"Right-o! And… good luck, mate!" said the cabbie.

"Thanks, I think I'm going to need it," muttered John, hurrying up to the front door.

* * *

John found the sitting room full of purple shadows but other wise empty. Sherlock's long coat was thrown over a chair.

"Sherlock?" called John.

The doctor ventured into the kitchen. Sherlock's suit jacket and shoes littered the floor. Yep, thought John, he's in a right strop. He could just make out the socks scattered in the dark hallway.

John picked up the jacket and brought it into the bedroom, where he was ambushed. He dropped the jacket, when Sherlock roughly grabbed his shoulders and kissed him.

John had no problem with that. He had no problem when the detective dominated the kiss, barely allowing John to draw a breath. John parted his lips and Sherlock plunged in with vengeance, claiming John's mouth.

The doctor moaned with desire, gasping for air as his lips were plundered and bruised. He grew dizzy, as his blood abandoned his head for destinations further south.

So John had no problem at all when Sherlock forced him backwards onto the bed. Oh no, John Watson thought it was a brilliant idea.

It was even more brilliant when Sherlock lifted him into the middle of the bed, still biting and kissing John's swollen lips. The domineering detective straddled him, grinding their groins together as John reflexively thrust up, blinding seeking more friction.

John was overwhelmed with lust, so he had no problem when Sherlock's large hands slid down the ex-soldier's arms. John thought it was fantastic when the bossy detective pulled John's arms over his head, holding John's wrists in one hand. John loved it when Sherlock took control like that.

Then the former army captain heard a click. No, make that two clicks. He tried now to move his arms. No-go on that, soldier.

Handcuffs. John was handcuffed to the headboard...This might be a problem.

"Sherlock?" asked John, remaining calm.

His unsmiling boyfriend rocked back and examined his handiwork. John felt himself begin to sweat. Thankfully, his coat and jumper had been removed somewhere between the door and the bed. John didn't really remember. Still, chained between the fires of lust and fear John Watson felt uncomfortably hot.

"Sherlock?" he asked again, pretending to be calm.

"You asked for bondage, John."

"No," said John, pursing his lips and shaking his head no. This was a problem.

"You asked to play DOM and SUB."

"No. No I didn't. I…"

Sherlock slapped him. Not hard, but it stung.

"What the fuck, Sherlock!" sputtered the doctor.

Sherlock slapped him again and then covered his mouth with a large hand. John narrowed his eyes and thought about biting him. They were both flushed and panting heavily.

Shite, thought John. Handcuffed with a madman on top of me. This was a problem. A big problem…

Sherlock ground down once against his boyfriend and slowly smiled, crinkling the skin around his mouth and eyes. It was not a nice smile. And, yet John's heart began to beat wildly, because that smile shone for him.

Sherlock ground against his blogger again.

John fought the urge to thrust back. He wondered if this was really such bad a problem after all.

"Did you want to dominate HER, John? Is that what you wanted?" Sherlock leaned forward; his inhuman silver eyes glittered evilly. John, still silenced by the large, pale hand shook his head no.

"Oh, did you want HER to be Dom?" Sherlock sneered. "Did you imagine her tying you down and crawling all over you, leaving her smell on you?" The detective's growl burrowed into the blond's chest and grasping his frantically beating heart, squeezing it. "Leaving traces of her cloying perfume, as she forced you to find the limits of your desire? Is that what you wanted…John?"

The prisoner, his wide, indigo eyes locked on his captor, shook his head no, vigorously. No. No. No.

"Well then," said Sherlock. His voice dripped like hot chocolate syrup, each word sweet and searing they fell on John's ears. "Well, then…I can only imagine that you wanted to play with me, John. Is that what you wanted?"

John stared, mesmerized by the eldritch silver-blue eyes.

"Well? Is that what you want?" repeated the consulting detective harshly. "Do you? Do you want to play…Dom and Sub with _me_…Johhhnnn?" Sherlock was so close that John couldn't focus. He was so close that his breath blew hot against John's burning skin.

John slowly nodded. Yes, oh God yes. John would play anything with Sherlock. Yes.

"All right, John. Good. Then no more talking," said Sherlock, finally moving again. He began rocking slowly over and over the man pinned beneath him. "The only word I want to hear from you is your safe word."

John felt his eyes widen. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Sherlock lifted his hand up.

"FUCK! Sherlock!"

Slap! And a hand covered John's mouth before he could spout off anymore. Sherlock tilted his head and smirked.

Through his fog of lust and wavering mistrust, John realized that by covering his mouth, Sherlock was sort taking care of him. He was sort of looking out for John, in an evil, dom, sexy sort of way. Yeah, it was a very caring gesture, really; the way Sherlock was stopping John from talking, because it prevented John from getting slapped again. It was sort of loving.

Shite, if that's the way John viewed it, then he was fucked. Well... fine, John was fucked, and he liked it. So then there wasn't a problem. Not a problem at all.

John slowly relaxed beneath his partner. Hell, what else could he do? John could no more resist Sherlock Holmes than he could resist a hurricane. Sherlock Holmes was a force of nature.

"Pay attention, John." John snapped to it (as best he could) considering that he was handcuffed to the bed and pinned down by the tall detective. "You actually said two words just now, and neither word is a good choice for a safe word," purred Sherlock. The low rumble vibrated in the smaller man's chest, fanning his embers into flames.

"John, do you trust me?" asked Sherlock "Yes or no?" he loosened his hand.

"Yes," whispered John nodding for emphasis.

"Safe word?"

John swallowed indecisively and then blurted out, "Cleveland?" John looked up for approval.

"Excellent, John. You're learning. Stay right there; don't move," he added smugly, placing one gentle kiss on his captive's swollen, magenta-colored lips.

John bit his swollen, magenta-colored lip, to keep himself from making a smart-ass retort about not being able to move anyway.

Yeah, John was learning.

Sherlock stood up and slowly stripped John, pulling off his shoes, socks, jeans and pants. John panted and gasped as his shirt was unbuttoned and pushed to the side. The handcuffs sort of made it difficult to remove the shirt.

John was trying very hard not to moan. He was a bit afraid that moaning might just be construed as talking, and he didn't fancy any more slaps.

Sherlock slowly undressed himself next, smirking at his partner's arousal. The fitted shirt slid to the floor. He leisurely unbuckled his belt and it fell to the floor with a clatter.

John accidentally groaned during the strip tease, but apparently that was allowed, since he wasn't punished. He groaned louder when the black silk pants were slowly falling, to pool in inky darkness over Sherlock's pale, ivory feet.

Then Sherlock, towering and naked, pulled a knife out of nowhere. John moaned even more loudly, a bit afraid and more than a bit turned on. He tugged helplessly at the cuffs.

"Don't pull like that, John," chided the domineering detective, gently stroking one of John's pink, chafed arms. "You'll hurt your wrists."

Once John had stilled, Sherlock slowly and deliberately brought the knife down and sliced John's tee-shirt open. John cried out wordlessly. Then the detective set the knifepoint gently onto John's neck, trailing it down John's chest.

"I say danger… and here you are, John Watson."

The blond doctor gasped. 'Please, please' begged John's indigo eyes, 'please, I need you.'

The World's Only Naked Consulting Detective climbed back onto John, kissing his subdued blogger. Trailing kisses onto his blogger's jaw and neck.

"You are mine, John Watson," growled the detective into John's neck. "You belong to me." He bit and then sucked over John's collarbone. "I own you…" The brunet worked the skin until it swelled with crimson, soon it would darken to a lovely purple shade. "Mine. You are mine, John. Mine." he snarled. Sherlock moved back up and began another love bite on John's tender neck. Gasping with fierce ardor, the doctor twisted his head to give his lover better access.

"Sher…"

A hand clapped over John's mouth.

"John! Say any words, other than the safe word, and you will be punished," Sherlock's voice rumbled with threat and passion, shaking John to his core.

**TBC**

**A/N **One more Act in this Ficlet unless some painting inspires me to add some more acts of fluff…I meant John. If John gets inspired. Yeah, it's all John's fault.

Thank you for reading this fic.

Thank you for your wonderful reviews!

**Disclaimer **I do not own the rights to Sherlock or John or anything remotely related to them. I do not make a profit. However, if anyone knows how I can get the rights and thus make an enormous profit by selling fluff and nonsense, please let me know. (LOL) :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning Rated M** for adult situations including mild dom/sub, cursing and smut. And truly egregious amounts of fluff.

**Act 3**

_At the end of Act 2….A hand clapped over John's mouth._

"_John! Say any words, other than the safe word, and you will be punished." Sherlock's voice rumbled with threat and passion, shaking John to his core._

John was drunk with lust but not stupid. He knew that he had two choices, because fighting back was not even an option-not with his hands cuffed to the bed. So one choice was to say the safe word and leave the room, which sounded...well safe, but John didn't really like safety. The other choice was to hang on tight and enjoy the ride. Yeah, that sounded like a lot more fun.

Since he was staying for the ride, the former army captain decided to change his tactics. John stopped struggling, then he parted his lips and began sucking on Sherlock's palm. The detective moaned and slid his fingers into John's mouth. Yes! Now we're getting somewhere, thought the blond. While Sherlock teasingly ground their hips together, the doctor suckled those tapered musician's fingers. John soon lost himself in his mounting excitement. He barely realized that he was moaning loudly and bucking his hips, trying to generate some much-needed friction.

John cried out in frustration when Sherlock abruptly withdrew his fingers from John's mouth and rolled off the bed. The doctor didn't struggle or speak (new tactics, remember). Still, he glared helplessly at his teasing, cold-hearted, so-called lover who was apparently abandoning him…Wait…Wait, his brilliant lover was pouring lube on his long, perfect musician's fingers. Oh God, yes! His wonderful, sexy, brilliant partner crawled onto the bed; he reached down and circled John in just the right spot.

Oh God. Yes! John arched his hips up, silently begging for more. Oh yeah, he left Sherlock in control, in complete control. And John loved it. He reveled in it. He'd have to find more ways to get in trouble if this was to be his punishment.

Despite his fierce, ice-chip eyes, Sherlock remained careful. He watched John's face for signs of any real pain or, God forbid fear. But after the first shock and some perfunctory struggles, his doctor had seemed eager to submit. As Sherlock had predicted, John was a natural submissive.

Oh yes, now the man writhed wantonly under his detectives ministrations. His golden body lay open and ripe for Sherlock's delectation. Just looking at the ex-soldier's muscular arms, drawn overhead and bound to the bed, helpless…it took Sherlock's breath away. John Watson was bloody gorgeous.

"You are beautiful like this, John. Beautiful," sighed Sherlock as he prepared his blogger for more. "Gorgeous. And you're mine. Mine. Don't you dare try to give yourself to anyone else."

John shook his head, 'no'.

Sherlock felt himself growl deep in his throat as he bent down to mark his lover again. He bit John's sensitive neck, pulling a long whine from his captive. The Dom sucked, as his Sub wriggled and tugged. When he was done, Sherlock surveyed the red bloom on his blogger's neck with pride. Mine. And now the whole world would see that John was his.

John gasped and another whine escaped his mouth. John, his John was desperate and needy. Sherlock couldn't tease much longer. He longed to finish John just to see that look on his doctor's face as he climaxed. He would be the one to satisfy his blogger, only him..

All thoughts of punishment were long gone. Now it was all about control, possession and giving John whatever he wanted. No. It was about giving John_ more that he ever knew that he wanted._ Only Sherlock Holmes could give this to John. Only Sherlock could see past John's carefully erected and socially correct veneer. Only his genius lover could satisfy John's secret desires and so...keep him forever.

The consulting detective would never let anyone take his little soldier away. Besides, no one was good enough for John Watson, certainly not that fake-blond, twice divorced, husband hunting and not very clever society tart. Even Sherlock Holmes wasn't good enough for the ex-military doctor. But Sherlock came close, closer than anyone else. Only Sherlock could give his doctor excitement, danger and bliss upon bliss while driving the memory of that nasty society woman out of John's tiny, easily confused little mind.

* * *

Sherlock drew it out. Carefully (perhaps a bit too carefully?) preparing his lover, bringing him close to completion, only to slow and drag John back from the edge. John broke and begged for more than fingers, earning himself another slap, which nearly threw him over the precipice. He shuddered. Every nerve tingled; every nerve sizzled, screaming for release.

It only stung a little, Sherlock was more threatening than threat. For the doctor, there was something infinitely worse than the slap, and that was when Sherlock _stopped touching John for punishment._ And it lasted for what seemed liked hours, although maybe it was only a couple of minutes...but still, it was torture when John needed those caresses and kisses as much as needed oxygen to breathe. Dear God, make him touch me...make him take me. Please. Please. Please.

The doctor daren't speak again. He couldn't beg, demand, threaten, bargain or plead. Sherlock was driving the crazy train. Sherlock was in charge of whether John was kissed or touched or punished. Sherlock decided whether John would finally, finally gain release or whether John would just die of longing and the agony of unfulfilled lust.

Oh God, oh my God! John was at the mercy of a possessive, sex-crazed madman, and he'd never been so aroused in his life as he submitted Sherlock Holmes. Oh Christ! He never even knew that he wanted this…to be bound and helpless as his domineering detective took and gave at his whim.

This. This was John's true vocation. This was the moment his life had been barreling toward, this agony, this passion waiting and wanting and…

Finally,finally... Sherlock Holmes took his blogger. John cried out slowly as he was slowly filled. He all but sobbed as his lover waited, fully seated, ensuring that the blond was ready.

Sherlock himself trembled, muscles taut, as he restrained himself. He was so close already, watching John fall to pieces, and John felt so good surrounding him with heat and ecstasy.

John sobbed as Sherlock withdrew and then slowly, much too slowly, returned. It was too much and yet not enough…not enough for either man.

The bound blond couldn't help but mouth the word please, begging for more. Pleading without sound for release.

Sherlock watched with satisfaction as his errant little soldier unraveled. He savored their prolonged and almost painful build up until tears seeped out of John's magnificent indigo eyes. The Dom reached out one long, tapered finger gently wiping away the tears and caressing his John's cheek.

It was time…it was past time. He drove into his golden lover. He gave John everything. Sherlock gave him more, much, much more than that silly blonde tart could ever give. And he gave it over and over and deeper and deeper. He brought John close, so very close then slowed again…making his Sub writhe with want and need. John cried out in anguish and bliss.

And this was the challenge because Sherlock was so damn close that it was killing him to hold back. How could he restrain himself when John Watson, his beautiful blond soldier, was debouched, so lost and so completely under Sherlock's control.

Sherlock slowly bent to kiss John's swollen, red lips and then…

With a snap of his hips he began driving relentlessly to the finish. The genius himself could hardly think. He could feel his soldier burning beneath him and around him. Underneath him, John shook as his climax approached. His gorgeous blogger opened his mouth in a gasping sob, his head thrust back into the pillows.

Sherlock took his lover in hand, keeping time with his punishing pace and drove them both crashing over the precipice. And they were consumed in the flames, as John screamed and Sherlock chanted John's name in the bonfire until he collapsed on his fallen love.

* * *

John was pretty sure that he must have died, which was fine really. It was a helluva way to go. But apparently neither heaven nor hell wanted John Watson, because they sent him back. The doctor knew this, because he found himself alive and curled up in Sherlock's lap. He'd be embarrassed, if he only had enough energy. Instead, he relished the comfort of his Dom's embrace.

Sherlock had boxed him in with his long legs and arms. John's head rested comfortably against his detective's smooth breast. Sherlock's long-fingered hands gently rubbed John's chafed, reddened wrists. His deep voice murmured John's name over and over. The blond blinked up at his impossible, amazing, extraordinary lover.

As soon as the doctor opened his cobalt blue eyes, the brunet spoke, "John, I really need you to answer me. Are you all right? I didn't…hurt you, did I?"

Sherlock smiled hesitantly into John's indigo eyes. John returned a loopy grin. "You are the most irritating man, John Watson," he said with a worried laugh, "You talk when I want you to stay silent, and yet you refuse to answer when I want you to talk."

John swallowed and tried to regain the use of his muscles, or at least his facial muscles. No-go on that. Oh yeah, he had to get his tongue to work too. Finally, John's voice squeaked out, "I…I think you…broke me. I think…Wow. Yeah. That was…brilliant." He rambled and gave his consulting lover another dazzling smile. John waved his hand loosely, like a broken puppet. "I don't mind."

Because John's reply was a bit fuzzy, (Really what did John mean by saying he was broken?) Sherlock repeated, "You're all right, then?"

"Oh, I'm good. I'm brilliant. _You're brilliant_," said John nuzzling into his lover's lean, muscled chest. "Brilliant. Everything's brilliant." He kissed his way up towards Sherlock's long, statuesque neck.

Sherlock snorted, clinging to his partner. "You're sure that you're all right, John? You passed out. You were out for several minutes…"

"Your own fault, Sherlock," the euphoric blond half sung.

"Impossible man. Your brain is more jumbled than ever."

"Your fault," teased John.

"This was meant to be punishment," sniffed the brunet.

"No it wasn't," sang John, who turned to kissing the prickly unshaved skin under a hard jaw.

"Well," conceded Sherlock, "Perhaps not. But I hope that I've proved that you belong to me. Once and for all. No one can ever give you what I can give you," asserted the genius firmly.

"Nope, no one. Just you," agreed the blond, who was drunk on endorphins and lots of other good chemicals, whose names he couldn't be arsed to remember. He reached up with a lazy hand to caress a razor-sharp cheekbone. " 'Sides, I don't want anything from anyone else, ever. Of course I belong to you. Of course I do."

"I didn't like you discussing art with that woman," said Mr. Pouty-face.

"Yeah? Maybe you didn't and then again, maybe you did," John's eyes narrowed. "I think it inspired you…'cept maybe…based on our analysis, you were supposed to ride me,' said John, pursing his lips in thought.

Sherlock made a moue of distaste. "You know I'm uncomfortable with bottoming John."

"Well, I could always ride you," suggested John, eager to help as always.

"Now?" said Sherlock, hopefully.

The former army doctor paled, his skin turning a bit chalky. "No. Oh no, Sherlock. Not now. I couldn't possibly…Not tonight. I would die."

"But John…"

"Look, I'm the doctor. I know these things," said John trembling slightly. "I would definitely die. We have to wait, at least until morning."

The brunet tilted his head and looked at his ashen, trembling lover. Perhaps John was right, thought Sherlock. John Watson was, in fact, a doctor. Sherlock had confirmed John's credentials after their first meeting. So his medical opinion was valid. And John had already fainted once tonight. Perhaps enough was enough.

"Fine!" Sherlock's long arm swung out and switched off the lamp. Then the lanky detective lay down fully, pulling his rather sticky, sweaty blogger onto his chest. He resumed running his soothing hands over his lover's strained wrists and arms.

John relaxed into this embrace. Sherlock kissed John's hands and his sore wrists.

"We can go to the National Gallery tomorrow," said the World's Only Consulting Dom. "You can teach _me _about art. But only me. You will in future refrain from discussing art with anyone besides me…especially bleached blond tarts. Is that clear John Watson?"

"Oh yeah, whatever you say Sh'lock. No more talkin' art to tarts," said John dissolving in to giggles.

As always, Sherlock could not resist his blogger's infectious giggles. A smile broke across his face, and he chuckled softly.

"It's a date then. We'll go to the museum, discuss some art, and then when we get home, we'll _discuss_ it some more." Sherlock skillfully used his lowest register to seduce his blogger.

"Okay. We'll do that, Sh'lock," muttered John. "But you haf-ta wear the cuffs, my wrists are too sore."

"Certainly, John." Sherlock made a mental note to acquire padded cuffs both for his own comfort and, more importantly for John's. Certainly, Sherlock could not allow his poor blogger's wrists to become this sore again. No, he would have to obtain the proper equipment if he was going to dominate John again…and again, and again...

"Right then. G'night, luv," murmured John, innocent of the plans percolating in the massive mind of the man holding him close. Well, mostly innocent. Well, John had not thought of the padded handcuffs...yet.

"Good night, John."

John's soft, sonorous snores were very relaxing. Yet Sherlock couldn't sleep just yet. He was too excited, planning trips to the local museums and art galleries. Who knew what latent, wild sexual fantasies lurked under John's oh-so-innocent, oh-so-vanilla, jumper-hidden exterior? And who knew that art would bring out those deeply buried secrets?

Sherlock grinned in the dark, because now he knew. Oh Yes! Sherlock Holmes knew! And only he knew. It was like Christmas or a locked room murder or a locked room murder on Christmas...only better.

In the dark, he could just make out the outline of John's face, so beautiful and _all his_.

"Mine," he rumbled into the blond's tousled hair. "All mine. My John."

* * *

TA-DA! I mean…

The End

* * *

**A/N** This is definitely The End, unless I get inspired…I mean...unless John gets inspired by some beautiful work of art, which will then be reduced to a seed for pointless smut. Let's hope that doesn't happen. :P

Thank you for reading and following. Thank you to those who listed this as a favorite and a special thank you to those who sent lovely reviews.

** THANK YOU :D THANK YOU :D THANK YOU :D**

**Disclaimer **I do not own the rights to Sherlock or anything Sherlocky, for which most of the world is profoundly grateful. :D


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